"A doctor? What he needs is a good jolt of aromatic spirits of ammonia. ” He stroked her hand gently. She came to adore them. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. "It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year.
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